


Poison

by Phishwritesfish



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, I have no idea how to tag lol, Other, Poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phishwritesfish/pseuds/Phishwritesfish
Summary: Maloxar doesn't want to face the consequences of his actions, and so he won't.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Ahahahaaaa, hello! I'm Phishdrawsfish on instagram, and if you already follow me there, then you probably know that I have A LOT of ocs. So, I decided to write about my worst one, so I could understand him better :) I'm not exactly the best at writing, but I've written drabbles here and there that I don't think are too bad. I know for a fact that I'm not going to post here often, but if I do, I'll let you know! Enjoy this short and not-so-sweet abomination!

The swirling reds were just short of hypnotizing, the bitter taste slipping down his throat with a mix of elegance and intimidation only a certain mer could project. Maloxar never liked the taste of wine, nor any alcohol for that matter, but he stomached it for the sake of political appearances. The banners were bright, tables were laden with fine cuisine, chandeliers swayed and twinkled with the merriment of the room, guests politely conversed and danced, and the music was divine. However, the mer looked upon the festivities with a sour visage, standing alone in some dark recess of the grand hall, his glare hateful. With a single sweep, his hawk-like gaze caught his nephew and apprentice, Xalastare. 

Of course, he wasn’t permitted to have an apprentice--he had no clearance. But that didn’t matter, and so it didn’t stop him. Consequences were merely minor setbacks in Maloxar’s calculating mind, silly distractions to be overcome and crushed. If he were caught doing anything not explicitly confirmed, he would certainly lie, cheat, take advantage of, and murder his way out of any annoyances. It was this mindset that had earned him a place under Lord Naarifin himself, who was also in attendance tonight. The servant to Boethiah and Vaermina had seen Maloxar’s skill and intelligence well over a century ago now, and it was put to the test during the Potentate Operation. It was a suiting trial, and one he had passed. “With flying colors,” Naarifin had said. His reputation only grew from there, even with his embarrassing loss of control over the Rune Situation. Maloxar should have considered himself lucky that Lord Naarifin had no real interest in the subject or the experiments concerning her, but Maloxar didn’t believe in luck. He only trusted results, and the means he used to obtain them. He naturally maintained a sharp lookout for the subject with hopes of continuing his investigations--after all, with a super weapon on the Dominion’s side, there would be no hope for the Empire in the upcoming war. But, she had simply vanished from existence, a most annoying setback. 

The thought of the war made Maloxar scowl, and he took a pointedly longer sip from his chalice. After swallowing the wretched liquid, he felt his mind ease, but that did not stop the bubbling frustration in his chest. 

This was a wedding ceremony, a wedding for none other than Xalastare. As Maloxar watched his apprentice dance with his new, beautiful wife, he recalled the events leading to this unfortunate union. 

“Apologies, can you repeat that, my liege?”

“Remove the stones from your ears, Maloxar,” Naarifin snarled at Maloxar, who stood perfectly still and at attention, unfazed by the insult. “I asked when you will be assigning your ward to a marital union.”

The subordinate Altmer grinned in annoyance. “Sire, if he were to be married, our armies would lose a valuable asset.”

“Well, he is of age, is he not?” the superior replied, unamused by Maloxar’s curled lips. “Traditionally, he should have married ages ago. Why are you stalling?”

Maloxar’s grin never left his lips as he glared into the cold eyes of his master. Maloxar stood maybe three inches taller than Lord Naarifin. He offered his superior respect regardless, though it was only in his presence. 

“My liege, you’ve seen his intelligence, have you not? He is magically gifted, strong, cunning--everything desirable in a leader, or at the very least, a general. Marrying him away will only waste an exceptional soldier.”

Lord Naarifin leaned closer to Maloxar’s face, his mouth pressed into a thin line and brows furrowed. “I do not care for what you believe is a good soldier. You do not give orders, I do. Must I put you in your place? I know already that you treat him as an apprentice, that you offer him extra training and education in your spare time.”

Maloxar’s lips twitched ever so slightly with exasperation--he had been caught. It was obviously a recent realization, but a realization nonetheless. And his punishment? Marrying off Xalastare, so he could waste away with some woman and have children, get a well-paying job, rot away in Alinor’s obviously corrupt but efficient inner-systems. Of course, Naarifin knew as well as Molaxar did that Xalastare would be a waste at home. But he simply didn’t care. There were other soldiers, other competent young mer, ready to rip, claw, and tear their way through the ranks. Xalastare was painfully expendable, at least in the state he was in now. If Maloxar could only spend more time with him--

“I’ll take your silence as compliance,” the aging Altmer hissed, pivoting and beginning to pace in front of Maloxar, his steel-plated boots clicking professionally against the ornate tiles. “I expect you to find a suitor by noon tomorrow, preferably one of a noble bloodline. I have a granddaughter you may be interested in.”

And Naarifin dismissed him, Maloxar found Xalastare a suitor (a rather attractive mer named Safrina), and he went on to plan the wedding and ceremony afterwards. It came as a surprise to the general public, but a welcome one. Maloxar’s nephew, getting married at last. 

Lord Naarifin’s presence should have been an honor to everyone in attendance. Anyone in his general vicinity was obviously and pathetically bashful, wringing their hands and stumbling over words. And these were Altmer, the greatest of all races, the most cultured and sacred civilization on Nirn. It spoke volumes of Lord Naarifin’s influence. But Maloxar knew why he was here. The general wanted to keep an eye on his apprentice, to ensure that the wedding went smoothly and that he didn’t try anything to frighten away the wife or her family. And begrudgingly, he didn’t. 

The Altmer glared into his almost empty chalice, irritated and only slightly glazed by the alcohol. His eyes perked up when he noticed a young Bosmer approaching him, delicately holding a platter with several chalices of wine balanced on it. She curtsied in his presence, but he only waved her away with disdain--she seemed to be a rather stupid Bosmer. Of course, just about every servant was. But, as she dutifully made her way to serve the other guests, she foolishly chose a path that was just a hair too close to the dancing guests. One thing led to another, and the poor servant collided with the bride herself, spilling the vile liquid everywhere. The music stopped, the other attendees stared, and the servant was mortified. Safrina was blessedly kind however, and offered to help her clean up the mess. Xalastare followed suit, and the festivities continued as normal. Not without a few other servants rushing to assist, of course. 

While the situation was perfectly mundane, perhaps a little dramatic, what with crashing into the bride herself, the occurrence wouldn’t spark more than a few whispers. Because of Safrina’s tame reaction, the worst case scenario would be the servant getting her pay docked. However, despite the domesticity of the setting, Maloxar was suddenly enveloped in what had to be a vision, or at the very least, the alcohol in his system. 

The wine on the ground ran like blood. It weaved through the grooves in the tiles of the ballroom with the malice of a serpent, the imagery akin to that of the veins in a body. This “blood” ran to and from a certain spot, always leaving, only to return seconds later. Like a pulsing heart. Standing in the middle of this heart was Safrina, smiling in her dainty dress, now stained with blood. Blood ran from the ceiling, leaked through the cracks in the marble walls surrounding them, and rose up from the ground. Soon, they would all drown in the blood. And this blood? It was the blood of their dying country. They would lose everything they had worked so hard to gain, all because of the critical wound inflicted by Lord Naarifin. He should not have married away Xalastare. He should not have disregarded Maloxar’s input. He should not have been so foolish as to believe he was truly in charge. 

Maloxar blinked away the hallucination when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking down to his right, he was privately surprised to see Lord Naarifin himself, who had somehow made his way to his apprentice’s side. The subordinate looked away and sipped his wine. 

“You did well, Maloxar,” he praised. “Xalastare’s suitor is stunning, is she not? Oh, what was her name... Sapphire? Saffron?”

“Safrina,” Maloxar replied dryly as he finished the rest of his wine, the back of his mind occupied with discerning his odd vision. 

“Ah, yes, Safrina. Shame her dress was stained.”

“Terrible shame.”

“Ah, well. Enjoy the night.”

“You as well.”

The exchange was like poison to the lips. The entire time, though Maloxar didn’t bother to grace him with a second glance, he could feel his master’s keen eyes scrutinizing him, discerning every micro-tic of his face, grasping to catch any sign of insurgency. A good thing that the subordinate was a master at hiding his intentions, all thanks to Naarifin’s own lessons. Maloxar found disgust in the irony--his master’s foolish habits would lead to his own downfall, if he were not careful. 

The repugnant feeling did not last long, for it was familiar. It was how the world worked. The master would teach the apprentice, the apprentice would use these teachings to rise above his master, and eventually strike him down. This cycle, of course, should have led to the downfall of their great country long ago. And yet they thrived. The secret to Alinor’s success was the prevention of the completion of this cycle. Or, at the very least, the postponing of it. Through systematic suppression, the strongest were able to rule, and those that had the murderous desire to usurp their rulers channeled that energy into becoming effective pawns. It was a venomous society, yes, but it was effective, and it was one that Maloxar intended to successfully cheat. 

Venomous. The world lingered in Maloxar’s mind as he handed a servant his empty chalice. Venomous. Toxic. Lethal. Poisonous. An idea dawned in the Altmer’s mind, and the annoyance of the situation of Xalastare’s marriage suddenly became a distant memory. 

Perhaps his consequences wouldn’t last as long as Lord Naarifin intended.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read all the way to the end, I am going to love you forever. And I'll love you even more if you offer some constructive criticism! Thank you so much for taking some time to read my micro-fic (if this can be considered one), and I hope you have a great day!


End file.
